


There Will Be Better Days

by theinvisibledisaster



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bellamy Has Cancer, Cancer Arc, Doctor Clarke Griffin, F/M, Family Dynamics, Friendship, Inspired by 50/50, POV Bellamy Blake, Psychologists & Psychiatrists, all the brotps, bellamy is an awkward disaster, but she's a solid second place, but they're trying okay?, clarke is an awkward disaster, echo as a quasi-antagonist, more importantly wells is alive in this, obviously the real antagonist is Cancer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2019-10-23
Packaged: 2020-10-28 18:14:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20782952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theinvisibledisaster/pseuds/theinvisibledisaster
Summary: The 50/50 au that literally not a single soul asked for.“Sorry I’m late.” He stressed as he sat down across from the doctor. The woman was in a business suit, which wasn’t generally how he expected doctors to dress, but he had no cause to believe otherwise, except that his own doctor didn’t dress that way.Wherewashis usual doctor?“Not a problem.” She said, clipped. He had a feeling she didn’t have much of a bedside manner. He was proved right when she followed it up with, “I’m Doctor Anya Gardner, the oncologist here. I was called in to look at your scans, and Doctor Kane agrees with my findings, so now that it’s been conclusively proven, we can work on finding some kind of plan of action.”He froze.“Uh, sorry, just… you’re an oncologist?”The look she gave him was pinched and cross-looking, like he was being scolded by a schoolteacher for not paying attention. “Yes. A cancer doctor.”He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “Sorry, there seems to be some kind of mistake, I went in for scans for a sore back, not cancer.”burning_elmo.gif





	There Will Be Better Days

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, firstly, just to get it out of the way because I don't want anyone to get halfway through before they realise, ECHO IS NOT A NICE CHARACTER IN THIS. 
> 
> I needed a bitchy girlfriend character and I refuse to assassinate Gina's character like that <strike>y'know like Echo basically did</strike> so she fit the role. If that bothers you, I have plenty of other fics where she's either not a villain or not mentioned, but for this story, she's a bit of a Bitch. 
> 
> Now that that's out of the way, I feel the need to stress also that I took GREAT PAINS to make the therapist/patient relationship a non-toxic one. There is very much not a power imbalance here, because I fucking hate those. Plus, she's a CANCER therapist, not just a therapist, so it's a fairly niche section of his life she's therapising over. No weird power imbalances here folks. Absolutely none. Miss me with that shit. 
> 
> Also, Wells is alive, because he's my precious son, and I'm sticking with my Clurphy brotp feels, because even though Murphy is in the naughty corner for the last couple seasons, he used to be my favourite cockroach, so I choose to believe he can still be that guy, especially in my fics. You can pry this brotp from my cold, dead hands.
> 
> Title from Tomorrow, by Miner.
> 
> I hope you like it! <3

_This time everyone has the best intentions. You have cancer. Let’s say_  
_ you have cancer. Let’s say you’ve swallowed a bad thing and now it’s_  
_ got its hands inside you. This is the essence of love and failure. You see_  
_ what I mean but you’re happy anyway, and that’s okay, it’s a love story_  
_ after all, a lasting love, a wonderful adventure with lots of action,_  
_ where the mirror says mirror and the hand says hand and the front_  
_ door never says Sorry Charlie. So the doctor says you need more_  
_ stitches and the bruise cream isn’t working. So much for the facts. Let’s_  
_ say you’re still completely in the dark but we love you anyway. We_  
_ love you. We really do._  
** Richard Siken, You Are Jeff**

Bellamy shifted in his seat, flexing his hands on the wheel in an attempt to loosen himself up. His back had been sore for weeks and nothing had managed to fix it, but it was especially bad when he was driving. Unfortunately, it was his turn to drive in the carpool, so he put up with it, to a point. Which is why if Miller and Murphy didn’t get out of their apartment building in the next minute, he was going to get out of the car and throw rocks at them.

He leaned out the window. “Stop making out and get in the car, we’re late!”

“He wishes.” Murphy said, sliding into shotgun, while Miller climbed into the backseat.

“Down boy.” Miller said, earning a wink in the rear view mirror that made him fake gag.

“One of these days you’ll flirt with me instead of Miller.” Bellamy feigned sadness, and Murphy flattened a hand over his chest in fake upset.

“You should have _said_ you wanted me to put the moves on you, Blake, I’ve been waiting years for you to finally admit our love is real-”

“-alright, alright, let’s get to work.” He grinned, batting Murphy’s arm away, and pulled out from the curb, wincing a little as he did.

“Your back still hurting man?” Miller asked, concerned.

“Yeah, I’ve got an appointment this afternoon to check it out. I’ve probably sprained something, I’ll let you know how it goes.” He turned left, heading towards work, and Murphy plugged his phone into the audiojack and started playing an upbeat rap song he didn’t know.

“How’s Echo?” He asked, loudly, over the music.

Bellamy shrugged. “She’s fine. She’s got a photoshoot this afternoon so she’s getting home late.”

“Great, so we can go out for a few drinks after work?”

“Appointment, Murphy.”

“Yeah, but after that?”

“Maybe. You two go ahead and I’ll meet you there if I’ve got time.”

“Deal.” Murphy said, turning the music up even louder and rapping along to it in the most comically over-exaggerated way he could.

When they got to work, they retreated to their separate cubicles to work - Miller on the cameras, Murphy on the sound, and Bellamy with a list of historical references to check. He’d known Miller since childhood, but they hadn’t met Murphy until they got this job at a production company. Bellamy wanted to something history related and Miller had just always been good with tech stuff, so they decided to follow each other into the documentary filmmaking business, only to discover a motormouth sound engineer with a proclivity for drinking. It was love at first sight, and they’d been friends for eight years.

As the day drew to a close, he watched Murphy and Miller finish their respective jobs and leave, waving lazily as they did. He was almost always the last one out, wanting to finish whatever little project he was on before he went home, and today was no exception.

It wasn’t until he checked his watch and realised he only had twenty minutes to get to his appointment across town that he ended up hurriedly shutting the computer down and jogging out to his car, wincing all the while.

“Sorry I’m late.” He stressed as he sat down across from the doctor. The woman was in a business suit, which wasn’t generally how he expected doctors to dress, but he had no cause to believe otherwise, except that his own doctor didn’t dress that way.

Where _was_ his usual doctor?

“Not a problem.” She said, clipped. He had a feeling she didn’t have much of a bedside manner. He was proved right when she followed it up with, “I’m Doctor Anya Gardner, the oncologist here. I was called in to look at your scans, and Doctor Kane agrees with my findings, so now that it’s been conclusively proven, we can work on finding some kind of plan of action.”

He froze.

“Uh, sorry, just… you’re an oncologist?”

The look she gave him was sort of pinched and cross-looking, like he was being scolded by a schoolteacher for not paying attention. “Yes. A cancer doctor.”

He opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again. “Sorry, there seems to be some kind of mistake, I went in for scans for a sore back, not cancer.”

Anya’s severe expression faded a little. “I’m sorry, haven’t you spoken to Doctor Kane?”

“No. I thought that’s what I was doing today.”

She sighed. “Mr Blake, I’m… I’m sorry, but you have cancer. Back cancer, to be precise, quite rare in people as young as you, but with much better survival rates than some of the other cancers that appear in young people - 50% of people make it to remission, as opposed to those with pancreatic cancer who only have a 20% chance of getting to that stage.”

“Uh, just, can I…” He wasn’t really taking any of it in, mind whirring as the room faded in and out. “I have _cancer?!”_

“If you want, I can assign you a therapist, so you can talk things through while you go through this. It’s a long process, and there’s no point bottling any emotions up, but I’m not who you want to talk to about those emotions. At all.” She scribbled a name down on a piece of paper - Doctor Clarke Griffin, Floor 5 - and slid it across the table to him. “If you need it, I can book you an appointment for next week.”

“Okay.”

“Does Tuesday afternoon work for you?”

“Okay.”

“I’ll email the office.”

“Okay.”

* * *

_“Remember, remember, this is now, and now, and now. Live it, feel it, cling to it. I want to become acutely aware of all I’ve taken for granted.”_  
**― Sylvia Plath**

Over an hour later, when he arrived at the bar, his friends were clearly already at least five drinks deep, and he slumped down into the booth beside them, still feeling numb,

He couldn’t seem to grasp the concept.

Anya had very patiently - if a little coldly - walked him through all the facts and figures and treatment options, but he’d spent most of the time nodding and agreeing to whatever she said, with very little idea of what was going on.

Miller faltered mid-laugh as he turned to him. “Hey. What’s wrong?”

“Did you finally break up with Echo?” Murphy asked hopefully. Bellamy still wasn’t sure why Murphy didn’t like his girlfriend, but all he said on the subject was that,_ “That woman is bad news”_ and refused to elaborate on it.

He shook his head dumbly.

Murphy, being a tad drunk, put his pint down decisively, spilling it. He sat forward and asked. “Dude, who died?”

“Uh, me. Apparently.”

“What?”

“I’m dying. Or, well, I might. 50/50, she said.”

Miller frowned. “You’re freaking me out. What’s going on, man?”

He took a deep breath. “I have cancer.”

Murphy glared at him. “That’s not funny.”

“It’s not a joke. I’ve got a tumour in my back.”

There was a smash behind him, and he swivelled to see Gina, his ex-girlfriend and their regular waitress at the bar, crouched down over a shattered beer, trying to move the bigger pieces of glass out of the way.

“Hey, Gina-”

“-you have cancer?” She asked, looking up at him, eyes wet.

He nodded slowly.

“I’m so sorry, Bell, that’s…”

“I’m fine. I’ve got even odds and a really good doctor, so I’ve got hope.”

She sniffled, nodding along. “I’m, um, I’m gonna get you another beer, okay? On the house.”

“You really don’t have to do that.”

“I want to, honey.” She said, straightening up so she could pull him into a hug. “You’re gonna be okay, right?”

He shrugged into her shoulder, and she squeezed him a little tighter.

Hey, free beer, guess this cancer thing isn’t so bad.” Murphy quipped, earning a smack from Gina and a laugh from Bellamy. As long as Murphy could still joke about something, he figured things were going to be okay.

* * *

_“To other people, it sometimes seems like nothing at all. You are walking around with your head on fire and no one can see the flames.”_  
**― Matt Haig, Reasons to Stay Alive**

He got home late.

And drunk.

Echo was sitting up in the living room, looking _particularly_ miffed.

“What sort of time do you call this?” She asked, crossing her arms.

He shrugged, collapsing on the couch next to her. “Part of the time I’ve got left.”

She narrowed her eyes at him and poked his shoulder, watching him sway with it. “How much did you have to drink?”

“I lost count after the last round of tequila.” He admitted, running a hand messily down his face. “Murphy convinced me-”

“Of course he did.”

“-because after next week I’m not supposed to drink too much.” He recited, fumbling the words a bit.

“Well, it’s a bit unreasonable of you to stay out all night without letting me know.” She snapped. “I got home from work an hour ago and I’ve been worried sick.”

“You’re home late all the time.” He said, drunkenness making him sound more than a little petulant, and she clearly noticed.

“For _work_, Bell, not because I’m out drinking with my two idiot friends.”

“S’okay, I won’t do it anymore.” He mumbled, burrowing further into the cushion behind her arm.

She scoffed. “Sure, whatever.”

“No, no, I can’t. Because of the chemo.” He said, dizzy and muffled.

She stopped trying to shift away from him and started pulling at his shirt instead, moving him back where she could see his face. “Because of the what?”

“Chemo.”

“Why would _you _being getting chemo?”

“For the cancer.” He sighed.

“What cancer?”

_“My_ cancer.”

“Oh my god, Bellamy! Why didn’t you call me, talk to me, tell me something?!”

Why _wasn’t_ his first port of call to speak to his girlfriend about it? He shrugged, limbs bouncing haphazardly. “I was planning to, when I got home from the appointment, but I… drinking was a better idea. I feel better now.”

She sighed, slightly disapproving, but patted his arm all the same. “Okay. Okay, you’re gonna be okay. Tomorrow morning, you can tell me everything the doctor said, and then we’ll work out how to deal with this.”

“You don’t have to stay.” He said bluntly, blinking up at her. “Cancer’s hard. It’s _hard_ hard. You really shouldn’t feel oblig… you don’t have to stay.”

She only shook her head, an expression he was too tipsy to understand on her face. “Of course I’ll stay. I can’t leave you in the care of those two idiots, can I?”

And a small part of him wanted to protest that those two _idiots_ had spent many years taking pretty _good_ care of him, as he had for them, but he was too tired and too brain-addled to put that thought into words, so instead he went back to burying his face into the comfy couch cushions, and tried to forget why he’d gotten drunk in the first place.

* * *

_“I think... if it is true that_  
_ there are as many minds as there_  
_ are heads, then there are as many_  
_ kinds of love as there are hearts.”_  
** ― Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina**

Tuesday came around surprisingly fast, and he left work early to making the appointment Anya had made for him. He arrived a little early, and considered hovering outside the door for a while, but quickly decided he’d rather get this over with.

Bellamy knocked on the door.

“Come in!” A female voice called.

He shuffled in, double checking the sheet of paper the doctor had given him. “Hi, are you, uh, Doctor Griffin?”

“Clarke, please.” She said, holding out her hand.

As he shook it, he looked up and saw her and, “Oh.”

“Oh?”

“You’re… young.”

“Were you expecting a middle aged woman named Beryl?” She asked, with the tone of someone who’d had to deal with similar scrutiny wherever she went.

“You’re just, you’re very-”

“-young, I’m aware.” She gestured at him to sit.

He situated himself in the middle of the comfortable couch and she returned to her seat on the other side of it, picking a clipboard up and balancing it on her knees. He drummed his fingers nervously. “I don’t mean to sound rude, but how old _are_ you?”

“24.” She said, checking the clipboard. “And you’re Bellamy Blake, 28.”

“That’s me.”

“You have-”

“-I know the diagnosis, I really don’t need to hear it again.”

“I was going to say ‘a younger sister’, but sure. Is she the person who’ll be taking you to chemo?”

“No, my girlfriend will be.”

Clarke scribbled something down. “Okay, I’ll need her details. And are there any other people I should add as emergency contacts?”

“Uh, probably my friends, Nathan Miller and John Murphy. They’re the people who are most likely to help out if Echo’s unavailable.”

“You’re girlfriend’s name is _Echo?”_ She asked, writing it down.

“Her dad likes the phonetic alphabet, I guess.”

For the first time since he entered the room, Clarke cracked a genuine smile of amusement, and he felt a small, inexplicable, flicker of pride at the sight.

She scrawled a few more things on the paper and then put the pen and clipboard aside, facing him. “You’re here because you’re sick. You have a 50/50 survival rate, which isn’t great but it isn’t the worst and you’re young so you’ve got a fighting chance of kicking its ass. Chemo is going to _suck_, and - not to be a cliche, but they exist for a reason - your emotions will be a bit of a rollercoaster. I’m here to help you manage all that; every session I’ll ask you about the physical toll of the chemo, how you’re doing mentally, and whether you need to talk, and then we’ll take it from there. It doesn’t have to be about your health - I’m a therapist, I’m here to listen to _you_ and anything you think you need to talk about.”

“What if I come in every week and feel totally normal?”

Clarke regarded him thoughtfully, leaning forward. “Look, your… condition, it can be emotionally taxing in ways you’re not expecting. Not just making you sad, or forcing you to confront your mortality, but also experiencing surprising bouts of happiness, or confusion, or a myriad of other things.”

He nodded dutifully, barely taking any of it in.

She continued. “This kind of an illness-”

“-You can say the c-word, you know.” He said, trying to refrain from rolling his eyes. “I’m not afraid of it.”

She sized him up for a moment. “Alright. So this cunt of an illness-”

Bellamy barked out a laugh and relaxed slightly, and she ticked something on her clipboard, smiling at him. He grinned back. “Okay, that was funny, I’ll give you that one.”

“Thanks, I’m here all week.” She paused, scribbling something down on a piece of paper. She tore it off and handed it to him: her phone number. “And whenever you need me. That’s my job. As your therapist. For your _cancer.”_

He snorted. “This is different to how I thought it’d be.”

“What, you thought you’d lie on a couch and talk about your childhood for an hour?”

“Kinda, yeah.”

“Therapy tends to be patient-led. If you come in and you don’t know what to say, or if there’s something you don’t want to talk about, we can just go through the motions - physical health, mental check-in, meditation - until you _do_ have something to say. I’m not going to force you to open up to me because that doesn’t help anything and you’ll just end up resenting me.”

He mulled it over. “So I can just come in here and take an hour of peace and quiet from the outside world?”

“If that’s what will help your mental health, yes.” She shrugged.

“Okay. What’s this meditation stuff?” He asked, and she smiled.

* * *

_“It is said that your life flashes before your eyes just before you die. That is true, it's called Life.”_  
**― Terry Pratchett, The Last Continent**

True to her word, Clarke didn’t make him talk about anything he didn’t want to. Past the beginning of the sessions, she’d just direct him to sit and meditate or something similar; letting him take advantage of a rare moment of peace and quiet in his life.

By their third session, Bellamy was still refusing to talk about his emotions beyond a basic, “I’m fine” and a simple discussion about his physical reactions to the chemo. It wasn’t that she was a bad therapist, it was just that he didn’t feel the need to talk about it.

The offer of a friendly ear was always there, but she never pushed.

Which was more than he could say for his friends, or his girlfriend, who seemed to want every conversation to be about his impending death.

After Miller told him he’d “feel better if he talked about it” for the fifth time, he finally snapped.

“Look, if my therapist thinks it won’t make things better to talk about it, then I think I’ll take her advice - you know, a licensed professional - over yours. Stop fucking bugging me about it. If I am dying, I don’t want to spend my last days on this earth _discussing_ the issue to death, okay? Can we just go back to normal? Please? Fuck me.”

Miller raised his hands in surrender, and Murphy clapped him on the back. “See, I told you.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, you’re right.” He grumbled, sounding very irritated that Murphy had been right about anything.

Murphy grinned, looking back to Bellamy. “Back to the topic at hand, why do you need us to fuck you? You not getting it from your girlfriend?”

“Dude, gross.” Miller made a face.

Bellamy hesitated.

Murphy’s eyes widened. “Oh god, I was joking. Dude, please tell me you’re getting laid on the regular.”

He slumped over the table, pressing his head into the ridges of the wood. “She’s worried about my back, so it’s not… we haven’t… it’s fine, it’s not a big deal.”

“Not a big deal?” Murphy asked, incredulous. “This is a _huge_ deal. Your girlfriend won’t sleep with you. Dude you have _cancer_, why aren’t you playing that card_ every night?!”_

“Like I said, it’s not an issue, we’re fine.”

“She doesn’t even-”

“-do _not_ finish that question.” He warned.

“Hey, you said you wanted to talk about something other than cancer.” He pointed out.

“Not my sex life.” He grumbled.

“Alright, Miller, how’s _your_ sex life?” Murphy swivelled in his chair, and Miller rolled his eyes and glanced at Bellamy, before he put his foot on the base and tipped the chair over entirely, sending Murphy to the floor. He rolled to his feet, always nimble, and mock-glared at them. “Alright, we’ll talk about _my_ sex life. I’ve been using Bellamy’s cancer to score points with girls-”

This time it was Bellamy who knocked his chair over, high-fiving Miller as he did.

* * *

_I'm gonna live till I die!_  
_ I'm gonna laugh 'stead of cry,_  
_ I'm gonna take the town and turn it upside down,_  
_ I'm gonna live, live, live until I die._  
**Frank Sinatra, Live Until I Die**

The first round of chemo was exactly as bad as he expected it to be.

Echo didn’t come into the hospital with him, preferring to schedule photoshoots for when he had those appointments and pick him up afterwards.

He didn’t complain. At least there was someone to pick him up - some of the people he met were being taken too and from the hospital by a paid nurse.

They were a nice bunch - positive, cynical, funny - and he liked them all well enough.

His nurse, some guy called Wells, was equally as fun, joking with the patients as he hooked their IVs up, and not interrupting when the tone got dark.

After a few laps of the room, checking on everyone, he settled next to Bellamy. “So, I heard you’re therapising with Doctor Griffin?”

“Yeah.”

“Is it going well?”

“So far. I’ve only had three sessions, but she’s… nice, she’s good.”

Wells grinned. “You so wanted to say _young.”_

He winced. “She _is_, right?”

“Yeah, but she’s good. I’ve known her my whole life and she’s the best person I know. Plus she knows more than most about cancer patients, and she _cares_. Smart, interesting, funny, and a really good listener. If you ever decide to talk.”

Bellamy frowned over at him. “Why do you think I haven’t been talking? Did she-”

He shook his head. “No, that’s just how she is - doesn’t force anyone to speak if they don’t want to.”

He relaxed. “So, you’ve known her your whole life?”

“Since we were womb-mates.” He said, grinning at his own terrible pun. “Our mothers were friends in college. She’s really cool. Huge nerd, too - loves the dorkiest shows and reads way too much - but don’t let that fool you, because she can outdrink anyone.”

“She should meet my friend Murphy.”

“No, I’m serious.” Wells said, dead-eyeing him. “She will demolish him. I have no idea how such a small woman can put away so much alcohol without dying, but I’ve seen it. It’s insane.”

Bellamy laughed. “Are you sure you can be telling me this stuff? Isn’t it some kind of breach of therapist-nurse-patient something?”

Wells shrugged. “Clarke won’t care. But if she does, tell her that Anya told you.”

Bellamy laughed again. He decided he very much liked Clarke’s friend. “Is there some kind of rule about inviting you to come to drinks with us tonight?”

He mulled it over. “Well, I’m not your personal doctor. And someone should probably be there to make sure you’re not drinking too much - it’s not good for you during chemo, you know.”

“So I’ve heard.” He said, only planning on having water anyway.

“In that case, I’ll be there. What bar?”

* * *

_“You live and learn. At any rate, you live.”_  
** _ ― Douglas Adams, Mostly Harmless_ **

“Dude I can’t believe you used your cancer to make a friend.” Murphy said, clapping Wells on the shoulder. “I salute you. Can’t use it to get laid, but you’ll play the pity card on a nurse so he’ll come out with us on a _Monday_ night.”

Wells snorted. “No-one played the pity card, I just don’t have a life. Clarke’s my main friend and our nights off always seem to be the opposite, so I haven’t been out in weeks. To tell you the truth, the old lady in my building could have asked me out and I’d have gone.”

“That’s pathetic.” Murphy grinned. “You’ll fit right in.”

“Oh good, for a second there I was worried I’d gone out with someone cool.” He deadpanned.

“Ignore him, at least one of us isn’t pathetic.” Miller said, pointing at himself. “So, what’s your poison Wells?”

“Clarke isn’t here, so probably some kind of cocktail.” He said, perusing the drinks menu.

Murphy raised an eyebrow. “What do you get when you go out with Clarke?”

“Shots, usually. Lots and _lots_ of shots.” He shrugged. “Clarke doesn’t mess around when it comes to getting drunk - she wants it as fast and as neatly packaged as possible - so we don’t tend to waste time getting drinks we actually_ like.”_

“Damn, I like this girl already.”

“Down boy.” Miller grinned. “Sorry Wells, Murphy wants to sleep with everyone. Even people he hasn’t met yet.”

“Hey, she drinks and she’s taking care of my best friend; that’s enough to make her hot in my book.” He retorted.

“She _is_ hot.” Bellamy said, before he could stop himself.

The three of them slowed their movements, turning to look at him.

He made a show of looking at the menu, even though he knew exactly what he wanted and his friends knew it. “What?”

“You never mentioned she was hot.” Miller said.

“That’s because it’s not important.” He muttered.

“It is.”

“Why?”

“Because you _didn’t_ mention it.”

“Why would I bring up the fact that my therapist is hot?”

“Because it was the first question Murphy asked after your appointment.” Miller raised his eyebrows. “And if I recall, you didn’t answer it.”

Shit, he was right.

“Yeah, well, I was preoccupied with the whole newly-diagnosed-cancer-patient thing.”

“I call bullshit.” Murphy said, at the same time as Wells said,

“Did you also go temporarily blind?”

Murphy tilted his head at him. “I like you.”

MIller shushed them and drew the focus back to Bellamy. “Dude, c’mon, you’re seriously telling me you didn’t notice she was pretty for a whole hour?”

He fidgeted in his seat. “Yes. Now can we please order drinks, before I drown you in yours?”

Wells snickered at them, but Bellamy had a feeling he wouldn’t tell Clarke - he seemed like the kind of person who didn’t spread things like that. Or at least, Bellamy hoped he was.

* * *

_No thank you no thank you no thank you no thank you_  
_ I ain't about to to die like this_  
_ I couldn't afford chemo like I couldn't afford a limo_  
_ And besides this shit is making me tired_  
_ It's making me tired_  
_ It's making me tired_  
** _ Chemo Limo - Regina Spektor_ **

The next day, Bellamy called off sick from work.

The chemo had taken its chemically-powered fist and shoved itself through his chest, and he was throwing up all morning. Echo had to rush off to work, so he ended up curled around the toilet bowl on his own for a long time, feeling sorry for himself.

Eventually he managed to get downstairs to the sofa, but once he was there, he couldn’t move for the next hour.

He lost most of the day to nausea and dizziness, but towards the turn of the evening, he had enough of a breather to drink something, and lean _near_ some bread without wanting to throw up, and he decided to sit at the kitchen table and get some work done from home, that way this day wasn’t completely wasted, plus he was near a sink if he needed it.

He was in the middle of completing a piece on Genghis Khan when his front door burst open with a loud bang and angry footsteps started barrelling down the hallway.

The yelling started as soon as she found him.

“WHAT THE _HELL_ IS WRONG WITH YOU?! YOU INSUFFERABLE, STUPID, WORTHLESS PIECE OF SHIT!”

“Good to see you too, O.” He said, not looking up from his laptop.

“YOU _SON OF A BITCH.”_

He glanced up at her, expecting her usual angry face, but instead, he found his sister close to tears, hands shaking by her sides. “Whoa, hey, what’s wrong?”

“What’s _wrong?_ What’s _WRONG?!” _ She yelled. “Were you ever going to_ tell me_ you had cancer, or were you just gonna get Murphy to send me a postcard after you died?!”

Shit.

He pushed his work aside, rushing to apologise before she could say anything else. “Fuck, I am so sorry, I was going to tell you, I really was, but I wasn’t sure how and then I didn’t know if you were still overseas with Lincoln and I didn’t want to ruin that and-”

“-Dammit Bell, you’ve got _cancer_, that’s not the kind of conversation you procrastinate!” She snapped, tears spilling down her cheeks.

He got to his feet, ignoring the pinch in his back, and walked around the table so he could hug her. “I’m sorry. I should have told you sooner. I just didn’t want to worry you.”

“Fuck you.” She sniffled, squeezing his shoulders.

It was the first time he’d hugged his sister in a really long time, and he tried to savour the moment - ones like these didn’t come around often, and he had no interest in wasting them anymore.

He frowned. “Wait, how did you find out? Did Echo tell you?”

Octavia scoffed as she extracted herself from the hug and sat down at the table, gesturing for him to return to his seat. “Like Echo and I talk? No, your therapist called.”

_“What?”_

“Clara, or something? Apparently you missed your session with her this afternoon and apparently when cancer patients miss sessions without calling ahead, people get worried, so she called you, and when you didn’t answer, she called your emergency contact. Which is still me.” She rubbed under her eyes, looking more drained than he’d seen in a long time.

He felt guilty for not telling her sooner, but honestly, she’d reacted better than he’d expected. Maybe he should pay Clarke to break all his bad news from now on.

_“Clarke.”_ He realised, smacking his forehead. He scrambled for his phone, turning it on and waiting for the messages to come through - there were quite a few of them. He quickly typed out an apology, explaining the situation.

Octavia was looking at him funny from across the table.

“What?” He asked, distracted.

“Where’s Echo?”

“She’s working late.”

“On a Tuesday?”

“Yep.” He really didn’t want to have this conversation with his sister again.

“Bellamy-”

“-O, we’re fine.”

“Bell.” She said, sympathy in her eyes. “If she can’t be here for you _now,_ when is she going to be?”

He opened his mouth to answer but his phone dinged with a response from Clarke.

**DR CLARKE:**  
_If you scare me like that again, I’m going to request a less  
panic-inducing patient._

He grinned.

**BELLAMY:**  
_Sorry. But you didn’t need to panic over me, I’m fine._

**DR CLARKE:**  
_It’s my job to panic. But if you could refrain from making me  
do __so until you’re actually in danger, that would be great._

He laughed quietly, texting her back, and Octavia kicked him under the table.

“Why are you flirting with your therapist?”

“What, no I’m not.”

“I know you, Bell, and that’s your flirting face.”

“I’m not flirting, I’m just…” He trailed off, sighing. “Clarke’s easy to talk to. Ever since I was diagnosed it’s like that’s all people can see when they talk to me. Even when the c-word doesn’t get mentioned, it feels like a neon sign is hanging over my head all the time. But with Clarke, I don’t know, it’s weird, because she’s my _cancer_ therapist, but it doesn’t feel like the cancer is all she sees, you know? Because all her patients have cancer, and she didn’t know them beforehand, so it’s not a revelation to her. It’s just another part of me, and she knows more about it than I do. It’s… _nice_ to not have to feel like I’m walking on eggshells.”

Octavia tilted her head back in realisation. “You like talking to someone who understands it.”

“Yeah.”

“Bell, are you-” she reached across the table to hold his hand, “-are you gonna be okay?”

He squeezed her fingers. “I hope so, O.”

“You’re gonna keep me in the loop from now on though, right?”

“I promise you, if I die, you’ll be the first person I call.”

She smacked his shoulder. “Not funny, jackass.”

* * *

_“There is always a glimmer in those who have been through the dark.”_  
**\- Atticus**

When he sat down, Clarke eyed him up, but she didn’t say anything. He thought maybe she’d just be able to _sense_ that his sister was back in town, and maybe she did, but she didn’t ask. Instead, she continued scribbling on her little clipboard like she wasn’t bothered.

“That’s not going to work.” He said, joking, but she seemed too distracted to notice the tone.

“What?”

“Reverse psychology.”

“I’m not doing that.” She said, raising an eyebrow in his direction but still focussed on her clipboard.

“Oh? What are you doing then?”

“Sketching.” She said slowly.

He frowned and leaned forward, trying to see it, but she twitched it up and out of his vision. “Why are you sketching?”

“It’s what I do when I’m stressed.”

“Why are you stressed?”

“Because life is life, and you’re not gonna talk, so I figured I’d actually use this hour for some kind of constructive psychological work.”

“On yourself?” He asked, actually interested for the first time since he started coming to this stupid hospital. Clarke was unlike any therapist he’d ever seen - scratch that, she was unlike most _people_ he’d seen.

“I mean, _you’re_ not using the time.” She said glibly, pencil gliding over the page.

He sat back, drumming his fingers against his knee as he watched her work. “Are you any good?”

Instead of answering his question, she sighed, pencil movements slowing slightly, and said, “I never wanted to be a cancer doctor you know.”

He blinked. “Really?”

“I was going to be an artist.” She said softly. “My mother always hated the idea, wanted me to be a doctor or a lawyer or something, but my dad… he was so supportive.”

She closed her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them, there was an earnestness that he’d never seen in her before.

“I was sixteen when he got cancer. Eighteen when he died.” She swallowed, but refused to look away from him. “We didn’t know what to do, and he was so… so calm. He was on top of it, all the time; just knew what to do, no matter what the doctors threw at him. And then one day, a few months before he died, I came home early from school, and he was just _sobbing_ in the kitchen, while he was washing the dishes. Like it was part of the routine - run the water, cry, dry the plates - and I realised that we only saw what he was letting us see. He didn’t have anyone to talk to, and he didn’t want to burden us because he wanted our last years and months with him to be the best they could be, but it was breaking his heart.”

“Clarke, I…”

She smiled wanly, shrugging. “I didn’t want him to feel like that. He was my _dad_ and I loved him _so much_. I wanted to fix it, but I didn’t know how, and then once he died, all I could think was that I didn’t want anyone else’s daughter or boyfriend or parents to feel that way. I didn’t want people with cancer to feel like they had to hide their suffering to spare the people they cared about, and I didn’t want the people they cared about to feel like they weren’t getting through.”

Bellamy felt inexplicably close to tears, but he didn’t say anything.

“To this day, I’m still not sure if my dad would be proud of me.” She admitted. “For becoming this. Or if he would be disappointed in me for throwing away my dreams in his memory.”

“God, Clarke, I’m sure he doesn’t feel that way.” He rushed to reassure her. “He’d be proud no matter what; as long as you’re happy. Are you happy that you’re doing this, instead of art?”

“I’m…” She stopped drawing completely in order to really answer the question, eyes glazing over a little. “I miss sketching and painting every day, but… this job is important. It might not make me happy every day, but I’m incrementally improving people’s lives, and that counts towards happiness on a bigger scale. Right?”

His stomach felt a little light, and he wondered if that was more aftereffects of the chemo or if it was the way she looked like she was considering every word before she said it; trying to answer the question in the best way she could.

She glanced up at him. “Like you.” Except it felt like a question.

He nodded. “Yeah, like me. I know it doesn’t always seem like I need your help, but just being here, sitting with me, without prodding… sometimes it’s exactly what I need.”

Her gaze sharpened a little, and she put the pencil down, picking up a pen in its stead. “But not today.”

“No, not today.” He admitted.

She put the drawing aside and focussed her full attention on him. “What’s different about today?”

“Uh, my sister found out I have cancer last week.”

Clarke clapped a hand over her mouth. “No.”

“Sorry.” He winced.

When she spoke, it was muffled by her fingers. “Bellamy, please for the love of all that is good and holy tell me that I didn’t break the news to your sister when I called her looking for you?”

The look on his face must have been enough of an answer, because she squeezed her eyes shut for a long minute, trying to collect herself.

“God, I am _so_ sorry.” She blurted out. “I just assumed, I mean-”

He waved off her concerns. “I know. I’m not blaming you. What I really need right now is someone to talk to about how to feel about my sister being back in town. Do you know anyone who might be able to help with that?”

She tapped her pen against her knee and gestured for him to begin.

That session, they went over the hour mark by twenty minutes. Luckily, Clarke didn’t have another client afterwards, but he still felt guilty, until she flashed him a smile and said, “I wasted at _least_ ten minutes of your sessions drawing, and another ten talking about my dad, so let’s call it even.”

“I’m not sure you’re supposed to go even with your therapist.”

“Yeah, well, I’m different like that.” She said, and he couldn’t help thinking that she really was, and that he wouldn’t mind spending more sessions ticking over the minutes with her. For a moment, he forgot he had cancer, or even that he had a life outside of that room.

Until he got a text from his girlfriend telling him she’d be late home, and lurched back to reality.

* * *

_Time, waits for nobody_  
_ We all must plan our hopes together_  
_ Or we'll have no more future at all_  
** Freddie Mercury, Time**

Wells was starting to become an actual fixture of their nights out, and a bonafide member of their little friend troupe, which was why it took Bellamy by surprise when he said;

“So why haven’t I met your girlfriend yet?”

He was at his Monday chemo again, and Wells was checking his IV for the second time that afternoon.

“I don’t know.” He realised.

Wells regarded him strangely. “I only ask because I know everyone’s family. Mr Wallace’s son comes in with him, the entire Lightbourne family - bitchy as they are - spend time with Josie while she’s going through it, and even her ex-boyfriend drops in with her sometimes. But I’ve never met Echo.”

“She’s a model, so she started scheduling photoshoots around the chemo, so she’s on time to pick me up.”

Wells stopped looking at the liquid above the IV and tilted his head at him. “Dude.”

“I know it sounds bad, but she really cares. I gave her an out and she chose not to take it.”

He still looked sceptical.

“Seriously.” Bellamy reiterated.

“I believe you, it’s just…” Wells seemed to be searching for the right words to say. “I’ve never even _seen_ her.”

And to be honest, that had been bothering Bellamy as well. He sighed. “I know.”

Wells put a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Why don’t you bring her out one night? You bring Echo and I’ll bring Clarke, and we’ll make it a party.”

“I don’t know.”

“C’mon man, or I’m gonna start to think you made this girl up.” He goaded.

Bellamy smacked his arm lightly. “Fine.”

* * *

_“The world breaks every one and afterward many are strong at the broken places.”_  
**― Ernest Hemingway, A Farewell to Arms**

Before they went out that night, Murphy decided they had to do something very important first, although he wouldn’t tell him what it was.

Bellamy showed up at his place, ready to go, and instead his friends dragged him towards the bathroom.

When they got there, Murphy pointed to the sink, next to which was a large electric shaver.

“Nope.” He started backing away, but Miller caught him.

“Yes.”

“Guys, I _love_ my hair. I’m not touching it.”

“Yes you are.”

“I’m not touching my fucking hair, Miller.” He growled.

Miller sighed. “Dude, look at it this way - would you rather shave it off here, with us, or watch it slowly start falling out at an increasingly soul-destroying rate.”

Bellamy groaned, but stopped fighting and let them drag him over to the mirror. He looked at his curls. “I fucking hate you guys.”

“No, you hate cancer.”

“What’s the difference.” He grumbled.

Murphy snorted. He turned on the clippers, and without wasting a beat, ran it over Bellamy’s head. A single strip of hair fell away, crushing Bellamy’s heart as it did.

He had to really put in effort in order to refrain from crying.

Once it was done - and they’d all taken turns shearing him - the three of them stared at his bald head in the mirror.

He hated it.

“On the plus side, you’ve still got good bone structure.” Miller offered.

“I dunno, I’m half-convinced his hair was what made him sexy.”

Miller glared at him through the mirror. “Murphy, that is so not helping.”

Bellamy was still just staring silently at his reflection.

It was haunting.

In the weeks since the diagnosis he’d mostly kept it together, but seeing himself like this… it really put it in perspective, made it seem more real.

Suddenly he wasn’t in the mood to go out.

His friends were trying to be reassuring but it was going in one ear and out the other as he stared at his reflection with a mixture of discontent and existential dread.

“Dude, give me your beanie.” Murphy said, not waiting for a response before he snatched it off Miller’s head. Ignoring the protests, he slid it onto Bellamy’s head and pulled it down past his ears. “Better?”

Bellamy blinked, pulling himself out of his trance, somewhat. “Uh, yeah. C’mon, we’re gonna be late.”

He left the bathroom, his friends close on his heels with their eyes locked on him, like they were waiting for him to break down. On any other day he might have snapped at them, but in that moment he really _was_ close to breaking down and he needed to do anything but talk about it, so he kept his head forward from the house to the car to the bar, only turning to face them when he was ordering a round of drinks.

They made their way to the booth, Murphy and Miller doing their best to feign good cheer, only to find that Wells and Clarke were already there, along with Octavia, who hadn’t been invited. Or at least, Bellamy _thought_ she wasn’t, until he glanced at Miller.

He shrugged. “She’s only in town for another week, and I figured if we were all going out, we should invite her. Lincoln’s not here, so it’s not like she’s got anything else to do. Uh- I mean-”

“Quit while you’re ahead.” Octavia suggested, flicking a pretzel into her mouth. Miller mock-saluted the advice and sat down next to her, leaving Bellamy no choice but to slide in on the other side, next to Clarke.

“I like the beanie.” She said, smiling at him in a way that suggested she knew why he was wearing it.

“It’s Miller’s.”

“And you look very handsome in it.” Wells chimed in, smiling far too widely.

Bellamy sunk down in his seat, glaring around at all of them defensively. “I’m not taking it off.”

Wells shrugged. “I wouldn’t ask you to. Mainly because Clarke would murder me if I did.”

“It’s true.” Clarke said, elbowing her friend. “It would be incredibly psychologically damaging for you to force someone to confront a major physical change they didn’t want to go through in the first place. Mainly because that’s called _bullying.”_

“And your solution to bullying is… murder?” Octavia checked.

“Pretty much.”

Murphy snorted. “See, I knew I’d like her.”

Murphy was right. In fact, Murphy was more than right - he and Clarke got on like a house on fire, sharing the same dark sense of humour and trading college stories while Bellamy caught up with his sister and Miller and Wells got to know each other a little better.

They were all talking diagonally across each other, but none of them seemed to mind, occasionally dropping in and out of each other’s conversations, and it was the most content he’d felt in a long time.

Octavia showed him photos of her travels with Lincoln, and talked about the small apartment they were thinking of buying in New York, which was at least closer than South East Asia, but it still felt way too far away. He didn’t complain, however, which he figured was growth on his part. She seemed to acknowledge it too, promising she’d come whenever he called, which is more than she’d ever done in the past.

In fact, he was so caught up in his sister’s want to be involved, and his friends getting along, that he almost forgot their party was missing a member, until she turned up.

Two hours late.

She didn’t really announce her presence so much as stand in front of the booth, tapping her foot, until she noticed him. Which he didn’t, until he realised Murphy had stopped talking to Clarke and was glaring at something.

He got out of his seat to greet her. “Hey. How was work?”

She made a show of kissing him in front of everyone, and he heard a fake gagging noise that was almost definitely from Murphy.

“Long. Tiring.” She said.

“Do you want a drink?” He asked, pulling his wallet out.

“Oh, would you babe? Thanks.” She said, sitting down in the space he’d just vacated.

Bellamy, thinking nothing of it, headed towards the bar and ordered a whole new round of drinks.

He felt a presence at his shoulder before she spoke. “I’ll get these.”

“I got it.” He said, a little defensively, and Clarke rested a hand on his forearm.

“Bellamy. Go sit down.”

“I’m not an invalid, Clarke.”

“I know that. But your girlfriend just got here, and you’re gonna be waiting for these drinks to arrive for a while. Take it from someone who knows - you should take the time you get.”

He began to give in. “Are you sure you’re not just saying that because you’re worried about me walking around or anything?”

“I’m always worried about you.” She whispered, and there was something behind it that he had a feeling he wasn’t supposed to see. Something that, if she was a little less tipsy, she would have kept locked behind her usual steely gaze.

He smiled and leaned closer so he could speak quietly despite the music in the bar. “That’s your job, right?”

She smiled back, a little sad, a little lost. “Yeah. That’s my job.”

And not for the first time that evening, he felt like he was missing something. Which only amplified when he returned to the booth to find everyone sitting in sullen silence, glaring down at the booze-soaked wood of the table.

“Everything okay?” He asked, slinging an arm over Echo’s shoulder.

Octavia’s expression was ice-cold. “Peachy.”

“Okay.” He said, drawing the word out sceptically. “So, how was work?”

“It was rough - I had to do a shoot with that Roan guy that you know hates me, so of course he made me drive across town to a different shoot just to annoy me.”

“Oh the tragedy.” Murphy muttered into his drink.

When Clarke returned with a tray of drinks, things livened up again, but it never quite returned to the joviality it had been before, and Bellamy couldn’t work out why.

* * *

_“You were merely wishing for the end of pain, the monster said._  
_ Your own pain. An end to how it isolated you._  
_ It is the most human wish of all.”_  
** _ ― Patrick Ness, A Monster Calls_ **

The next week of chemo went as it usually did.

Josephine made a rude remark to Wells as he walked past, and her ex-boyfriend apologised to him quietly when he thought she couldn’t hear.

Dante tried to drag Bellamy into a conversation about ethics and philosophy.

Wells ribbed him about his nerdy job and his love of history, and they made plans to hang out again sometime the next weekend.

Everything was routine, right up until he went outside to meet Echo and found that her car was nowhere to be found.

He checked his phone, expecting a text or a missed call to explain why she was running late, but there was nothing. That was fine - maybe she was in the car and she didn’t want to text and drive on her way.

Except that she didn’t show up for the next ten minutes.

In fact, she didn’t turn up for the next _hour._

Or the one after that.

Finally, almost three hours late, he gave up. He called Miller, who drove up silently and didn’t make a single comment on it all the way home, which he was thankful for. If Murphy had come, he’d never have heard the end of it.

“Do you want me to stick around?” Was the only thing Miller said, as he put the car in park in front of Bellamy’s house.

He shook his head. “Don’t worry about it, I’ll be fine.”

Miller looked like he wanted to argue, but mercifully, he didn’t. He drove away with a half-hearted wave and Bellamy shuffled into the house - it was dark, and cold - where Echo clearly hadn’t been in a while.

He collapsed onto the couch, planning to wait up for her, but he was exhausted from the chemo, and from waiting, and before long, he slipped into a restless sleep.

* * *

_“Confidence is ignorance. If you're feeling cocky,_  
_ it's because there's something you don't know.”_  
** ― Eoin Colfer, Artemis Fowl**

He was woken the next morning by his front door being kicked open in a triumphantly loud way that could only be from one person.

“I FUCKING KNEW IT!” Murphy yelled, striding down the hall.

“Why does everyone insist on yelling when they come in?” Bellamy muttered to himself. “I don’t have cancer of the ears.”

Murphy shrugged at him in answer, tossing his phone into his lap. Bellamy picked it up gingerly. He wasn’t sure what to expect if he unlocked it, but he figured, knowing the source, that it probably wasn’t anything good.

“So Miller got home late last night, because after he picked you up from chemo,” he looked at him meaningfully, “he went looking for your girlfriend.”

“Oh.”

“He never found her.” Murphy said, a sharp edge to his tone. “But I did.”

Bellamy clutched the phone a little tighter, not liking where this was going. “Where?”

Murphy gestured at it. “I took pictures.”

Bellamy opened the gallery and swiped through until he found the pictures Murphy was talking about. Echo was in her underwear, splayed out over a mattress.

“So she was modelling and forgot to pick me up?”

“Keep swiping.” Murphy said darkly.

He did.

“Oh.”

The next few shots painted a very distinct picture - Echo was cheating on him.

“I know Miller’s the camera guy, but I’m pretty proud of those shots, if I do say so myself.” Murphy quipped. “I fucking told you so, man; that bitch is bad news.”

“How did you get these?” Bellamy asked numbly.

“I was doing an odd job this morning, really early, for a small studio on the other side of town. I know I’m not supposed to pick up freelance work, but I figure as long as the boss doesn’t know… anyway, I was at this dodgy studio, and across the street was this motel, and I recognised Echo’s car. So I went up to the window, and she was getting dressed. She clearly met up with her guy and then forgot the time, or fell asleep, because she seemed to be in a hurry, and she almost saw me when she ran out, but I hid in a bush.”

That should have been funny to him. Murphy diving into a bush should be hilarious. But instead, Bellamy just felt cold.

“Plus, you should have heard the shit she said at the bar.”

He lifted his head. “What shit?”

Murphy crossed his arms, annoyance sitting between his brows. “She was rude to your sister, but that’s not news, she snapped at Gina when she brought me my fries, and she asked Wells how long he and Clarke had been dating and when he said they weren’t, she accused Clarke of trying to get in your pants. Just, straight up said it to her. In front of all of us. Clarke laughed it off, and she went over to help you with the drinks, but after she left… I told Echo to back off, but she basically said that there’s no way a girl like that would hang out with you unless she wanted to sleep with you.”

“She’s my therapist.” Bellamy said, affronted. “And my friend.”

“That’s what Miller said.”

“So… she accused _me_ of cheating? With Clarke?”

“Pretty much.” Murphy shrugged, catching the phone when Bellamy tossed it over. “Octavia got in her face about it, and things were about to get really bad when you came back to the table.”

“That explains the weirdness.” He realised.

“Yeah, that and the fact that none of us have ever liked her.”

“You mean _you_ never liked her.”

“No, dude, I mean all of us.” He said, deadly serious, and Bellamy thought back on all the times he’d brought Echo out, or when his sister had come to visit in the past, or the times he mentioned Echo and Miller went quiet. Murphy was right - just because they weren’t as vocal about their dislike as him, didn’t mean they liked her. It just meant they were trying to respect his decision.

He was still sifting through that realisation when the front door opened for a second time that morning, and Echo came swanning through.

Her eyes narrowed at Murphy as she came in. “What are you doing here?”

Murphy grinned wolfishly. “Finally taking out the trash.”

She opened her mouth to retort, confused and annoyed, when she saw the look on Bellamy’s face, and a flash of guilt crossed her own. “I’m so sorry baby, I got caught up at a photoshoot, and then Roan had me drive to TonDC for another set, and I figured it would be better to stay overnight and just drive back this morning.”

“You didn’t think to call?”

“We’re not attached at the hip, Bellamy.”

“No. But you were supposed to pick me up from chemo.” He snapped.

She went completely grey and clapped her hands over her mouth. “Oh my god.”

He felt anger bubbling up in his chest, and struggled to stop his hands from curling into fists on his thighs.

She rushed to apologise. “Oh my god, baby, I’m so so sorry, I just forgot, I thought it was today-”

“-he has it on the same day every time.” Murphy drawled, flipping his phone idly between his fingers. To anyone who didn’t know him, it might have looked like he was bored by the confrontation, but Bellamy could see the way his eyes were trained on Echo’s face, and the tension in his shoulders - he was furious, and the only thing stopping him from yelling at Echo himself was that he knew this was Bellamy’s fight.

She glared over at him before she turned back to Bellamy, simpering. “It was just a mistake, baby, it’s not-”

“Get out.” Bellamy whispered.

The effects of the chemo were starting to hit him - nausea and dizziness in equal measure - and he wanted her gone before he started throwing up.

She tried to protest, but he just couldn’t deal with it anymore.

He felt sick.

“I don’t want to hear it. I know where you really were, I know why you forgot, and I need you to get out of my fucking house.” He said, strained.

She froze. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, he knows that you’re a lying, cheating harpy!” Murphy snapped. He immediately retreated, not wanting to step on Bellamy’s toes, but Bellamy was honestly too uncomfortable to care.

She didn’t have anything to say to that.

Bellamy shifted in his seat a little, trying to alleviate some of the pain in his aching back. “Who is he? Do I know him?”

“Baby…”

_“Do I know him?”_

“No. He’s a friend from high school.” She said.

He closed his eyes. “How long?”

“Only the last few months.” She folded her arms over herself. “I bumped into him at a party for work, and we just… reconnected.”

Murphy’s jaw dropped. “So you’ve only been seeing this guy _since_ your boyfriend was diagnosed with cancer?!”

She started to cry, sniffling as tears dripped off her chin. “I never meant to, it’s just… all this stuff - chemo, you being sick all the time - it’s a lot to deal with, and it was just a lot of pressure, and he was there for me.”

“While you _weren’t_ being there for me?”

She hung her head. “I’m sorry. I can do better, I can stop seeing him, I can-”

“-just go.” Bellamy said. “Get your things and leave.”

“You’re really going to throw all this away? Two years?”

“No, Echo, _you_ threw it away.” He got to his feet. “Now get out of my house.”

She made an upset, disgruntled noise in the back of her throat, and started gathering up her headshots and pieces of clothing strewn across the living room. She shoved it into her bag and stomped up the stairs to get the rest of it out of her drawer in Bellamy’s room. Murphy watched her go with a mixture of fury and glee, but when he turned to celebrate with Bellamy, he noticed the pallor of his skin and immediately rushed over to hold him steady.

“Whoa. You okay?” He asked.

“I’m gonna be sick.” Bellamy leaned on him heavily, and Murphy slung his arm around his waist, walking him towards the bathroom.

“Okay buddy, you’re gonna be okay.” He said, or something to that effect, as he lowered him down in front of the toilet bowl. Just in time, too.

While he heaved his guts out, Murphy disappeared to make sure Echo had all her stuff before she left, and he slumped against the bathroom wall, feeling more than a little sorry for himself. Eventually, the front door slammed closed, and Murphy came back, sitting down across from him on the tiled floor. When he tried to tell him to go, he just shrugged.

“But I haven’t even told you about the girl I picked up at the bookstore the other day. I was looking at cancer books, and talking about how much of a good friend I am, and she was just drawn to me-”

Bellamy lightly kicked his shin, but Murphy had still managed to achieve his objective - cheering him up, even if just for a minute.

He missed his appointment with Clarke that day, texting her that he was too sick from the chemo. She texted him back more than once making sure that he was okay and offering to send someone by with food or medicine, but once he promised her that Murphy was there with him, she eased off.

It felt nice. Being worried about.

And, out of nowhere, it occurred to him that his girlfriend hadn’t acted like that at all, not once, and he sunk back down over the toilet bowl and threw up again.

* * *

_You expected to be sad in the fall. Part of you died each year when the leaves_  
_ fell from the trees and their branches were bare against the wind and the_  
_ cold, wintery light. But you knew there would always be the spring, as you knew_  
_ the river would flow again after it was frozen. When the cold rains kept on and_  
_ killed the spring, it was as though a young person died for no reason.”_  
**― Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast**

After that, he really threw himself into work.

He started staying longer hours again, and turning in more projects than ever, much to his boss’s alarm. “Bellamy, no-one’s going to begrudge you going home early every now and then, in your condition.”

But he didn’t care.

The next week, at chemo, he even brought work with him, and was in the middle of writing a piece on Robert the Bruce when Wells sat down next to him and put a scrap of paper on his laptop.

It looked like an address.

When he shot a questioning look in his friend’s direction, Wells pushed it closer to him. “It’s Clarke’s.”

“Why are you giving me Clarke’s address?”

“Because I’ve seen this a hundred times. You’re gonna go Vertigo.”

“Excuse me?”

“Vertigo? The 1958 Hitchcock classic?” Wells prompted, but Bellamy had no idea what that was. He lifted his eyes to the ceiling, exasperated. “You know the zoom shot in Jaws?”

“Oh, yeah.”

Wells tutted to himself before he continued. “Typical. Anyway, that shot was made famous by Vertigo, to show what that feeling looks like, and it’s what I call it when cancer patients hit an emotional wall and either take a step back or have a complete breakdown.”

Bellamy tore his eyes from the laptop screen and gave Wells his full attention.

“You have cancer, chemo is miserable, and you just found out your girlfriend has been cheating on you. You’re throwing yourself into work because you’re trying to distract yourself from those things, but it’s not gonna work forever, and when you hit that wall and go Vertigo, I think you should have this.” He tapped the address again.

“Why?”

“Because your house won’t feel comfortable, and you won’t want to burden your friends, and when you have that breakdown, you need to have somewhere to go. Dante goes to the art gallery, Josie sits on the beach, but from what I can tell, your whole life is your job and your friends. And there’s nothing wrong with that, but it means that when you go Vertigo, you won’t have anywhere you can go to ground yourself. Clarke barely sleeps, and she doesn’t have a life either, so no matter when you go, she’ll be there to help.”

Bellamy picked the scrap of paper up, twiddling it between his fingers. “Are you sure she’d be okay with you giving out her address like that?”

“Dude, she’s barely your therapist. She’s your friend first, and she’d rather you came to hers than ended up in the middle of nowhere.”

Bellamy was still unsure, but he pocketed the address anyway, just in case.

After chemo, he waved goodbye to Wells and walked to the bus stop outside the hospital. He’d been sitting there for barely two minutes when someone cleared their throat next to him.

Clarke was hovering there, car keys in hand.

“Bellamy, why are you sitting at the bus stop?”

“Because I’m waiting for the bus.” He said patiently.

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

“Echo and I broke up, and the others all have work, so, I figured getting the bus home was better for me than walking.”

Clarke looked like she was struggling not to combust. When she spoke it was direct, like explaining something that someone should already know. “Bellamy. You can’t take the bus home after chemo.”

He shrugged.

“Okay, c’mon, you’re coming with me.” She said, jangling her keys.

“No, that’s okay, you don’t have to-”

“-I’m on my way home anyway.” She said, shoulders set like she was readying herself for battle.

“Clarke I’m sure I live on the opposite side of town to you, there’s no way-”

“-Bellamy, however stubborn you think you are, I promise you, I will not take no for an answer. There’s no way I’m letting you do this.” And she sounded so sincere that all his arguments died in his throat.

“Okay.” He said, and she faltered, surprised that she’d actually gotten through to him.

He followed her across the staff carpark to her little blue car, and climbed into the passenger seat, feeling awkward. To her credit, she appeared completely unbothered, humming along to the radio as she drove.

“So you and Echo broke up?” She asked, tone far too casual.

He snorted. “You definitely already knew that. Wells knows.”

“I was trying to give you the illusion of some privacy between your friends.”

“I’m pretty used to it. Did they tell you why?”

Clarke pursed her lips.

“That’s a yes.” He inferred.

She winced, glancing over at him as she crossed the junction. “Sorry. Murphy and I get drinks on Friday nights, and he sort of spilled it to me.”

“You hang out with Murphy without me?”

“Uhm.”

“Oh my god. You know _all_ of it.” He realised, nodding slowly. “Great.”

She scrunched up her face a little, feeling guilty. “Murphy was pretty… vocal, about his dislike for her. He’s not exactly the kind of person to pull his punches.”

“I’m just… why didn’t you tell me she was rude to you that night?” He asked.

She shrugged. “She’s your girlfriend.”

“Which doesn’t give her a pass to treat you, or anyone else, like shit.” He pointed out.

“Look, my last relationship was a dumpster fire, and the one before that, I got cheated on. I know how it feels, but I also know that it doesn’t matter how many other people point out how bad things are, _you_ have to work it out for yourself. I thought Lexa was great, the love of my life, and a few of my friends made comments about her, but it wasn’t until I realised that I’d sort of isolated myself, that she had become the only person in my life, that I understood how toxic that relationship truly was. And it wasn’t Lexa’s fault, she wasn’t doing it maliciously - it’s just not a healthy relationship to be in, and when I told her as much, she told me that if I didn’t love her enough to sustain it that way, then I never would.”

“Jesus.”

She laughed, breathy, and a streetlamp flickered over her face, lighting up her smile. “It’s fine, we’re still on relatively good terms - she was a doctor as well so I can’t avoid her - but it was a toxic space to be in, and none of the pointers my friends gave, or the glares Wells doled out, were enough. I had to see it for myself.”

Bellamy stayed silent for a moment, listening to Fred Astaire crooning over the radio. “I can’t imagine Wells glaring at anyone.”

“He was glaring at your girlfriend too.” Clarke indicated, turning onto his street. “You just didn’t notice.”

Huh.

He was so deep in thought, trying to remember if he’d seen Wells looking remotely annoyed that night, that he didn’t notice that Clarke had parked in front of his house until she cleared her throat politely.

He apologised and slid out of the car, thanking her profusely for dropping him home.

“Any time.” And unlike the vague platitudes of his workmates, that statement held weight when she said it.

For the first time in over a week, he felt like he had a solid place to stand, and he began to think Wells might not have been so wrong about his Vertigo theory.

* * *

_“Usually we walk around constantly believing ourselves. "I'm okay" we say. "I'm alright"._  
_ But sometimes the truth arrives on you and you can't get it off._  
_ That's when you realize that sometimes it isn't even an answer--it's a question._  
_ Even now, I wonder how much of my life is convinced.”_  
** _ ― Markus Zusak, The Book Thief_ **

For the next few weeks, he developed a sort of routine:

Chemo on Mondays with Wells, then meeting with Clarke at her car so she could drop him home on her way from work, and then, much later in the evening, to the bar with Miller and Murphy, where he’d eat pretzels and drink water while watching Murphy down shots and badly hit on the nearest thing with legs.

Occasionally, if he had the time, Wells would drop in as well, and the four of them would talk and laugh until it got so late that one of them would beg the need for sleep.

On Tuesdays, he’d go to work, and then to his appointment with Clarke. They would swap stories of childhood trauma and she’d talk about her dad, and every now and then he’d mention his mom, and at the end of the hour, she’d show him whatever she was sketching.

Wednesdays and Thursdays he’d work late, despite his boss’s repeated assurance that he didn’t have to, and then on Friday, he’d have Miller around to watch a movie or battle each other on whatever ancient x-box game he picked out.

The weekends were quieter, and he started feeling a little claustrophobic stuck at home without much to do, so he visited the bar with Murphy or skyped his sister and Lincoln, but mostly he just stayed in, feeling tired and sorry for himself.

This worked, for a while.

Until he had a check-in appointment with Anya at the six month mark, where she told him that even though the chemo wasn’t doing as much as they’d hoped, at least the cancer wasn’t spreading, and that was supposed to cheer him up.

“This means that we can operate.” She said, her tone about as happy as he assumed she could sound.

“What sort of operation?”

“The operating kind.” She said, sliding a folder of information across to him. “It’s been scheduled for two weeks time, I’ve already worked it out with the surgeons here; they’re the best in the country.”

“I’m sorry, you’ve already _booked me in?”_ He asked, mind reeling.

“We want you under as soon as possible, and I’m sure you’d rather be recovering from a successful operation than continuing with chemo for the next god-knows-how-many months.”

“Assuming it’s successful.” He said doubtfully.

She tilted her head at him. “Yes. Assuming it’s successful.”

And a week later, everything went wrong.

When he arrived at chemo, the room felt emptier, and it took him a second to realise why. He was so used to seeing Josephine’s entire family down the other end, that it was weird to not immediately see them there. He didn’t _like_ any of them, except for maybe her ex-boyfriend, Gabriel, but it was still disconcerting without them.

When Wells paced by, Bellamy got his attention. “Where’s Josie?”

Wells looked down at the floor, solemn, and Bellamy knew the gist of what he was going to say before he said it, but it still managed to take him by surprise. “She passed away on the weekend.”

“What?”

Wells shrugged helplessly. “Her cancer was pretty severe, and the chemo wasn’t really improvi-”

“-she was younger than me.” Bellamy said, like he was expecting the words to somehow change reality. Like if he said it enough, she would turn up with her snooty mother again and shoot glares at everyone for the rest of the hour.

It was like a bucket of ice cold water had been thrown in his face. He would have understood if Dante died, but Josephine… she was barely Clarke’s age. She had her whole life ahead of her, until the moment she didn’t.

And panic wound its way around his neck and pulled tight.

_Vertigo._

He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the space where her family should be. Wells was saying something, but he didn’t really hear it. He felt himself going through the motions, carrying on a conversation with his friend, but none of it was getting through.

He was dying.

He had cancer and he was dying, and there was nothing he could say to make that not true.

* * *

_“There are so many fragile things, after all._  
_ People break so easily, and so do dreams and hearts.”_  
**― Neil Gaiman**

After chemo, as usual, Clarke drove him home. If she thought he was being too quiet, she didn’t say so, and that should have made him feel better, the way it always did. Instead, it infuriated him.

“What do you think my sister will do at my funeral?” He asked. There was a note of bitterness in the question, which was only amplified when he followed it up with. “Would she even turn up, I mean, she’ll probably be in Tanzania, or Antarctica or something - maybe she won’t even make it?”

Clarke’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I’m just thinking about the fact that I’m dying, and I don’t even know if my sister will bother to show up for the funeral.”

“Bellamy, you- you know that she would. She loves you.” She stopped at a red light and turned to look at him more fully. “Listen, a lot of what you’re feeling right now is from the treatment-”

“-I really don’t need you to psychoanalyse me right now. You haven’t done it in six months, why start now?” He growled.

Her eyes widened fractionally and she pressed her lips together, head swivelling back to the road as the light turned green. “If you don’t want to talk to me about it, you don’t have to.”

“No, I’m just sick of everyone dancing around it.” He said, throwing his hands up in annoyance. “Murphy makes jokes about it, Miller and Octavia don’t talk about it, and everyone I work with gossips about it whenever I leave the room, but no-one will look me in the fucking face and just tell me that I’m going to die.”

“Because you’re not.” Clarke said sternly.

“Clarke, I have cancer. It’s not a fucking cold, or a bruised elbow, it’s_ cancer._ I’m dying, and nothing you or anyone can say is going to stop it from happening. You can therapise all you want and I’ll still be dying.”

She swallowed, knuckles turning white. When she spoke, it was soft, softer than he deserved. “I know that, Bellamy.”

“Well then why won’t anyone just fucking say it?!”

“Because people are bad at dealing with mortality.” She said, matter-of-fact and still far kinder than his behaviour warranted. “And your friends are doing the best they can, but even if they had the conversations you want them to have, like you said, it won’t change anything. You’ll still have cancer.”

“Well then why did I get assigned to _you?”_ He snapped. “If talking won’t help, why the fuck are you here?”

“I’m trying to be here for you, Bellamy.”

“Why? Because you want to reassure yourself that you’re not wasting your life, disappointing your dad?” He knew as soon as he said it that he’d gone too far.

It was the worst possible thing he could have said.

It was needlessly cruel.

And her response was still _so_ kind.

“Because I care about you.” She murmured, voice wavering. “But if you think this isn’t helping, then that’s fine. You don’t have to see me, it’s not a requirement, and I’m…”

She parked in front of his house, leaving the sentence unfinished.

He wanted to say something, to apologise, but the words wouldn’t form in his mouth. All that came out was a strangled, “thank you” for dropping him home, and he didn’t expect any response to that, let alone a nice one, but once again, Clarke was a far better person than he was being.

Without any hint of malice, she promised, “any time,” as she always did, before she disappeared down the street.

* * *

_“Fear isn't so difficult to understand. After all, weren't we all frightened as children?_  
_ Nothing has changed since Little Red Riding Hood faced the big bad wolf._  
_ What frightens us today is exactly the same sort of thing that frightened us yesterday._  
_ It's just a different wolf.”_  
**― Alfred Hitchcock**

Hours later, he met Miller and Murphy at the bar, as usual. They hadn’t made it to the booth this time, still leaning against the counter to pay for their drinks, and he sidled up to them with the same confidence he always did.

What _wasn’t_ usual, was that after about two hours of sitting there, talking about Murphy’s latest conquest and the cute guy Miller had a crush on in accounting, and the deadlines they were rushing to meet, Bellamy couldn’t take it anymore. He was sick and tired of being sober. He was tired of having to deal with everything with a clear head. He was tired of being sick.

So he snatched the whiskey from Murphy’s hand and downed it in one, smacking the glass down triumphantly when he was done.

“Whoa, I thought you weren’t supposed to drink on chemo.” Miller eyed him warily.

He just rolled his shoulders back and stretched his neck. “It’s frowned upon, but no-one says I can’t.”

Gina piped up from where she was pouring Murphy a new drink, her tone carefully neutral. “I’m sure there’s a reason it’s frowned up.”

“Who cares? I’m dying anyway, so who the fuck cares?” He said, tapping the counter.

Gina glanced between him and his friends, but she passed him the drink anyway.

He knocked it back.

Tapped the counter.

She poured him another.

He knocked it back.

Tapped the counter.

When she hesitated, Murphy stepped over and put a hand on Bellamy’s chest. “Man, c’mon, this isn’t healthy. You’re going to make yourself sick.”

“Don’t care.”

“You’ll care tomorrow.”

“If I’m lucky, I won’t _get_ a tomorrow.” He growled back, grabbing the bottle from Gina’s hand and making himself a drink.

Murphy recoiled like he’d been slapped. “What the fuck is wrong with you, dude?”

“Haven’t you heard? I have cancer.” He said, finishing off the drink and gesturing at the shot glasses. Gina seemed unsure, but she pulled one out anyway, hovering it in her hand above the countertop. He turned a glare on Murphy. “Oh wait, you already _know_. You’ve been using it to pick up girls.”

“Hey, that’s not fair.”

“You’re a selfish prick, capitalising on _my_ illness, and _I’m_ not being fair?” He asked, far too loudly, and some heads began to turn their way.

Gina made up her mind, returning the shot glass to its place on the shelf. “Bellamy, if you’re gonna behave like this, I need you to leave.”

“Fine.” He snapped, and without another word, he stormed from the bar.

He ended up at home, sitting on the couch, and panicking.

There was something playing on the TV but he didn’t care.

Nothing mattered.

If he was going to die, nothing mattered right now, and it never would.

His whole world was crashing down on him at once and he couldn’t catch his breath, eyes locked, unseeing, on the flickering screen in front of him.

Octavia wouldn’t have any family left. All she would have was Lincoln, and if something happened to him, she’d be alone.

Miller and Murphy would mourn for a little while, but they’d move on.

Wells might become the new him, might slot into the group to fill the space he was going to leave behind.

He didn’t even have a girlfriend to leave his belongings to. None of his friends would want them, and Octavia certainly wouldn’t - the amount of history books and replicas of old artefacts, and the ratty clothes he’d had for years - it was hardly a dent to leave on the world. It would end up in storage, or distributed to thrift stores.

Everything that made him who he was would be scattered until he disappeared.

So none of it mattered.

One of his old possessions on the bookshelf caught his eye: the amber necklace his mother used to wear. All his memories of her included that necklace, and when she died, he held onto it; like the harder he gripped the chain, the less likely he’d be to forget.

But he still did.

He couldn’t help it.

And someday soon, his friends would forget too.

An impulse hit him, and he snatched his car keys off the table and got in his car. He wasn’t sure where he was going, all he knew was that he wanted to get out of there. He had just enough sense to know that he was too tipsy to be driving, but in that moment he didn’t care - he was gonna die anyway, maybe it would be better if it was quick.

He had barely pulled out of his own street when Miller called.

“I don’t want to talk to you.” He said, making a random left.

“I know.” Miller said, always the steady one. “But you should talk to someone.”

“I can’t.”

“Bellamy-”

_“I can’t.”_ He snapped, and hung up.

The tiny dashboard clock was glowing 1:30am and he was starting to run out of steam.

The anger and panic and misery was starting to catch up to him and weigh him down, and even the driving wasn’t leaving it behind. He remembered the address Wells had given him so many weeks ago, and like the car was driving of its own accord, he started heading towards it.

He parked across the street and walked to the house. It was smaller than he expected, but it was still much nicer than he own, and he wasn’t really thinking about that. He knocked on the door haphazardly, more than once.

It swung open to reveal Clarke, in her pyjamas, cell phone in hand. When she saw him, she relaxed a little, hands dropping to her sides. She pulled the door open further, letting the light from the hallway wash over him, and he could see her analysing his features. He was certain he looked like a mess.

“I’m freaking out.” He admitted.

“I know.” She said softly.

“How?”

“Well, for one thing, you’re standing at my door at 2am.” She pointed out. “Also Murphy called me.”

She stepped back to let him inside, and he stumbled in, catching himself on the wall before he fell. He pressed his cheek against the wallpaper. “I hate that you’re best friends with my best friends.”

“No you don’t.” She murmured, wrapping an arm around his waist.

“I do. I hate it.” He let her walk him over to the living room, and the two of them collapsed onto the sofa, sitting almost tangled, facing each other. “And I hate my friends.”

“No you don’t.”

“I do.” He said, but he didn’t mean it. He sniffed. “And I hate that I’m dying.”

Her breath caught a little when she looked at him. “I know.”

“And I hate that you’re the only person I can talk to about it.”

“I know.” Her fingers were playing with his, lacing together, and her other hand ended up on his neck, holding him steady, soothing him. Her eyes looked so blue even in the dim light.

“And I hate that I can’t kiss you.” The words spilled out before he could stop them, his brain too fogged with alcohol to regret it.

She froze for a moment, lips parting in surprise, before she smiled sadly. She didn’t say anything, she just kept stroking her thumb along his jaw as he slowly drifted off to sleep.

* * *

_“If getting drunk was how people forgot they were mortal, then hangovers were how they remembered.”_  
**― Matt Haig, The Humans**

Bellamy woke up with possibly the worst hangover he’d ever had.

He hadn’t even drunk that much - he couldn’t, because of the chemo - and he was starting to realise why the nurses had advised him against it. The headache he usually got after drinking was compounded by the nausea and vice versa, and every movement was agony.

As if he didn’t already have enough reasons to regret last night.

Clarke had left a glass of water and some aspirin on her bedside table and after he took them he slowly started to feel less like death.

After a while, he managed to push himself up without wanting to vomit, and eventually swung his feet off the side of the bed, steeling himself to stand. There was a little pile of folded clothes - a shirt and some tracksuit pants - on the floor by his feet, and he picked them up. He tried not to think about why Clarke had men’s clothes available to lend him.

He stumbled out towards where he assumed the kitchen was, only to find Clarke sitting at the counter, pushing scrambled eggs around her plate with a fork.

She looked up as he entered. “Hey. You okay?”

“Not even close.” He muttered, voice hoarse and cracked, and she nodded and looked back to her plate.

“There’s eggs on the side, or-”

“-eggs is fine.” He muttered, shuffling over.

He sat down with a small portion of eggs, poking them with his fork. He felt sick, and there was no way he was actually going to eat them, but he didn’t know why Clarke wouldn’t be eating hers.

“Are you…” He hesitated, unsure how to phrase it. “Are we okay?”

She leaned forward. “Bellamy, I can’t be your psychologist anymore.”

Well, that was a lot blunter than he expected.

He put his fork down, food untouched. “Because of what I said last night?”

She bit her lip. “Yeah. Because of that.”

“Oh.”

“Because this relationship isn’t professional anymore, and because… because I’m your friend and I care about you, and I want you to get the right care for your mental health.” She was watching him like she was worried he was going to snap again. Which to be fair to her, he was strongly considering. She rushed ahead. “It’s just not a good idea for me to see you as your therapist anymore; I have too much emotional investment in your wellbeing and just… in _you_, as a person, and I need to take a step back. My friend Monty, you remember him? He’s an excellent doctor, he’ll take good care of you.”

_“You_ were taking good care of me.” He said, kicking himself at how forlorn he sounded.

“And I can still do that.” She said, like a promise. “Just not as your cancer therapist.”

He frowned, brain catching up. “So… you… what does this mean?”

“Well.” She reached across the table to hold his hand. “It means I don’t have to kick you out of my house for crossing boundaries. So if you want, we could sit on the couch and watch old movies. Throw popcorn at the screen whenever we see a bad racial stereotype.”

“Seriously?”

“I told you, Bellamy, I’m your _friend_. I want to keep being your friend.” She was smiling softly, but it didn’t look happy, and there was moisture on her lashes. “For as long as you’ve got left, whether that’s two years or the rest of our lives. Okay?”

He looked down at their joined hands. “Oh.”

“I was barely your therapist, Bellamy. I’m pretty sure you know more about me than the other way around. I had to find out that your girlfriend cheated on you from your friend, and you only told me because you were planning to take the _bus_ home from chemo. I think you need someone that you can talk to about that stuff in a more professional capacity, and Monty’s really good, I promise.”

“But can I…” He swallowed. “I like talking to you.”

“You can talk to me about whatever you want.” She promised. “But not as your therapist. Okay?”

He felt himself starting to tear up, and he blinked rapidly in a futile attempt to stop it.

“Bellamy? You okay?” She asked, worried, and he wordlessly stood up and moved around the counter so he could wrap her in a hug, sobbing into her shoulder. She gripped him tightly, and he wondered where the hell he’d be without her.

“Thank you.” He said into her damp shirt.

“For being such a bad therapist?” She joked.

“For being a good friend.” He said, holding her just a little tighter. “Whether our therapy sessions were professional and structured or not, you helped. You’re still helping. You’re exactly what I need.”

It might have been his imagination, but he was certain he felt her pulse jump a little, and he pulled away and scrubbed under his eyes.

She smiled, wiping away a few tears of her own. “But you’ll still let Monty help, right?”

“If he’s as good as you say he is.” Bellamy agreed.

“Good.” Her whole body slumped in relief; she must have been just as concerned about the conversation as he’d been. She looked at the two plates of uneaten eggs and pushed them to the side. “Wanna watch an old movie?”

He mulled it over. “Have you got Vertigo?”

She laughed, the happiest she’d sounded in the entire time he’d known her. “I showed Wells that movie you know.”

“Is that a yes?”

She answered his question with a question of her own. “How many Hitchcock movies have you seen?”

“Uh, Psycho?”

“You’re such a rookie.” She led him towards the living room. “You’re about to get the Hitchcock education of your life.”

He followed her with an untamable grin on his face, more than willing to let her rant about classic movies for as long as she wanted. As they hunkered down on opposite ends of the couch and she cycled through Rope, and North By Northwest, and Rear Window - intermittently pausing them so she could spout random trivia or ask him what he thought - he felt his sense of the world beginning to realign.

By the time they reached Vertigo, he felt his own spiral was reaching its natural conclusion.

Somehow, over the course of the day, Clarke had gravitated closer and closer to him on the couch, and they were now pressed against each other, while he leaned against the arm, pillows propped up behind him to make sure it wasn’t too much strain on his back.

“Anya told me about your surgery.” She murmured, fingers playing with the hem of her shirt. Her gaze was still locked on Kim Novak, but he had a feeling she’d been trying to figure out the right way to approach the topic for a while.

He swallowed, throat feeling tight. “Yeah. It’s next week.”

“You’re gonna be okay, Bellamy.”

“What if I’m not?” He asked, voicing the fears that sent him into the Vertigo spiral the day before. She was the only person he could manage to do that with, and he wondered if she knew it.

“Then I’ll let Murphy choose the music at your funeral.” She said glibly.

He laughed. “Wow, you drive a hard bargain, guess I’ll just not die.”

She lifted her head up to look at him. “You’re going to be _fine_, Bellamy. The chemo shrunk the tumour enough for it to be safe. It’s not perfect, no surgery ever is, but we’ve got the best surgeons in the country, and you’ve got people who care about you. You are going to be okay.”

“Are you reassuring me, or yourself?”

“Both.” She whispered, and the rawness of her honesty took his breath away.

He didn’t say anything more, just turned back to the TV and curled an arm around her shoulder, keeping her close.

* * *

_“Coming back to where you started is not the same as never leaving.”_  
**― Terry Pratchett, A Hat Full of Sky**

The day of his surgery arrived a lot faster than he was expecting.

He was going about his life, taking every day as it came, and then all of a sudden it was Thursday morning and instead of getting ready for work, he was sitting in front of the phone, trying to work up the courage to call his friends.

Murphy answered after the second ring. “What’s up?”

“Um. I have surgery today, and I… I need a ride.” He said, feeling ashamed with himself. The first time he’d spoken to his friends since he blew up at them, and it was to ask a favour.

In his defence, he hadn’t been into work since that day, choosing to stay at home and get himself in the right headspace. He wasn’t sure how well it worked, but he was trying. He wrote up a will, and called his sister, and watched all the classic movies on the list Clarke had given him, texting her throughout all of them, but he never called his friends.

He was trying to give them space, and he was sure they were doing the same, but it still felt wrong, not having seen them in that long.

“That’s today?” Murphy asked, sounding weirdly muffled.

“Did Clarke tell you?”

“Obviously.” He said, voice getting louder.

“Look, I’m really sorry. I know I was a dick to you guys. Especially you. I had no right to attack you like that; I just…”

“Have cancer.” Murphy finished for him, and he could hear the smile in his voice.

“That’s not an excuse.”

“Why not?” Murphy said, voice reverberating a bit. Bellamy glanced up, looking for the source of the echo, and then there was a sharp rap at the door.

When he opened it, he was greeted by the site of Murphy and Miller, both wearing shirts that said, “I’m with Cancer” with arrows pointing to opposite sides.

“You’ll have to stand in the middle if this aesthetic is going to work.” Murphy said dryly, pocketing his phone.

Bellamy swallowed, feeling a whole cocktail of emotions as he looked at his two best friends in the world. “You’re not still mad?”

Miller passed him his beanie. “We were never mad at you, man. We were just worried.”

He slipped it over his head and reached out to grip them both in the tightest hugs he could manage. “You know I love you guys, right?”

“Romantic love confessions right before surgery; you’re a walking cliche, Blake.” Murphy quipped, but when he kissed him on the cheek, it was earnest and emotional. “Come on, let’s get you to the people with the very sharp knives.”

“They’re called scalpels.” Miller pointed out, clapping Bellamy on the shoulder as they walked to the car.

“But it’s so much cooler to call them knives.” Murphy grinned.

* * *

_“Many people need desperately to receive this message:_  
_ 'I feel and think much as you do, care about many of the things_  
_ you care about, although most people do not care about them._  
_ You are not alone.”_  
**― Kurt Vonnegut, Timequake**

He was prepped for surgery, waiting to be wheeled in and put under anaesthetic, when the curtain was yanked back and Octavia appeared at his bedside.

“O?!”

“Clarke called last week, we got this week off work.” She kissed his forehead and held his hand, the way she used to do when she was a kid and they’d cross the road together. He couldn’t remember the last time his sister had clung to his hand like that, and he was so distracted by the nostalgia of the moment that it took him a minute to catch up to what she said.

“We?”

Lincoln loomed into view. “Hey Bellamy. How you doing?”

He grimaced. “Fucking terrified.”

Lincoln nodded sagely. “You wouldn’t be normal if you weren’t. But we’re all here for you.”

He placed a large hand on Bellamy’s shin comfortingly, and Bellamy found that he really did feel better with it there. He nodded at him, glad that he’d found a friend in the stoic man over the years, even if they didn’t see each other as often as they’d like.

Miller started asking him about their latest travels, and Murphy leaned back in his chair as his phone pinged. He glanced at it. “Clarke’s at work, but she’s made me promise not to let you die.”

“Me too.” Wells poked his head in. “I’m on shift in two minutes, but I’m pulling for you, and I made Murphy swear he’d avenge your death.”

“Gee, thanks.” He deadpanned, but he couldn’t help breaking into a grin at his friend’s sense of humour.

Wells couldn’t stay long, but neither could Bellamy, and soon a nurse came over to administer the anaesthesia and wheel him to the OR.

He started to feel the Vertigo spiral of panic in his lungs, and started babbling about not wanting to go, about how he wasn’t ready, and Octavia squeezed his hand tighter and tighter until she was forced to let go, and he watched the sterile hospital lights flick past rhythmically until the darkness claimed him.

* * *

_“There may be more beautiful times, but this one is ours.”_  
** ― Jean-Paul Sartre**

When he woke up, his back felt _weird_.

Not sore, exactly, because it must have been pumped full of anaesthetic, but weird.

The kind of weird that told him it _should_ be feeling sore, and brought him back into consciousness a lot faster than he was expecting. He was still groggy, but he was very _awake_. He blinked his eyes open and glanced around.

“Hey buddy.” Wells said from the foot of his bed. “How’re you feeling?”

“Cold.” As he said it, he realised how true he was, and tried to pull the blankets closer around him.

Nimble hands batted his own away, and he recognised them as his sister’s. She readjusted the covers for him, and then went back to holding his hand.

“That’ll be the drugs; it’s a side effect.” Wells explained.

“That makes sense.” Bellamy sighed, sinking his head back against the pillow.

He was blinking very slowly, and the next time he opened his eyes, Miller was in the doorway, sporting an armful of takeout. “He woke up?! And none of you snakes thought to text me?!”

Murphy laughed and grabbed one of the bags from him. “Don’t get your panties in a twist, he literally just woke up, and he’s still not really here.”

“Hey man, I’m glad you’re not dead.” Miller said as he sat down next to Lincoln.

“Thanks.” He breathed. “Is it rude if I go back to sleep now?”

Someone’s hand was on his shoulder. “Sleep all you want. But I can’t guarantee I won’t draw a dick on your face.”

“Murphy!” Octavia said indignantly.

Bellamy wanted to laugh but he was just so _tired_, and then he drifted back into the warm, fluffy darkness of sleep.

* * *

_You just wanted to prove there was one safe place, just one_  
_ safe place where you could love him. You have not found that place yet._  
_ You have not made that place yet. You are here. You are here. You’re_  
_ still right here._  
**Richard Siken**

The next time he woke up, it was late, and the room was empty. It must have been past visiting hours, and he was resigned to lying there in abject boredom for the next hours, when the door creaked open.

Blonde hair fell through the gap, and Clarke’s blue eyes followed, peeking into the room.

“You’re awake.” She said, surprised.

“I’m alive.” He agreed, equally as surprised.

She smiled and entered the room, closing the door softly behind her. “How are you feeling?”

“Fluffy.” He said, because it was the only word he could come up with to describe the sensation of morphine and exhaustion in his veins.

“Fluffy is good. Fluffy is better than dead.” She joked, coming to stand by the end of his bed.

“What time is it?” He asked.

“Late.” She said, glancing around for a clock. “I was working late, and I missed you before the surgery, so I thought I’d come and check on you before I went home.”

“You work too hard.”

“I work just hard enough.” She countered.

“You’re too far away.” He mumbled.

Her smile widened, and she stepped around the bed, sitting down on the edge of the mattress next to his hip. “Better?”

He shook his head, dopey and petulant. “You’re always too far away.”

“What do you mean?”

He shifted his hand forward, lifting it onto her leg and stroking his thumb back and forth over the material of her pants. She let her own hand fall onto his arm, keeping it in place.

“I want you here.” He said, in answer to her question.

“I am here.” She promised.

“No, I want you here, all the time.”

Her smile stalled.

“I want you here in the bar, and on your couch, and I want you in my house, and I want you _here_, all the time, so that everything will be okay.”

“Everything _is_ okay.” She said reassuringly.

“Everything only feels okay when you’re right here.” His hand tightened over her thigh. “You’re gonna stay here, right?”

She shuffled closer, blue eyes filling up the whole room. “Yeah, Bellamy. I’m gonna stay. Right here.”

* * *

_“You get what anybody gets - you get a lifetime.”_  
** ― Neil Gaiman**

The news that one’s cancer is in remission is pretty fucking great.

Anya was serious - as usual - and reminded him that there was a miniscule possibility it could come back, but even she couldn’t help but smile as she relayed the news.

It had been over a month since his surgery, and he had been recovering at a pretty fast rate - and more importantly to his vanity, his hair had been coming back - but that had done nothing to quell the fear that maybe it had all been for nothing. When he went in for his blood tests, Clarke had reminded him of the statistics, listed off facts and figures and made sure he knew he would be fine, but there was still that flicker of doubt.

Until he sat down across from Anya and she told him that she was happy to say that she never wanted to see him again.

When he left her office, he went straight back to work to pick up his friends, and they carpooled to the bar.

Gina served them, “On the house; fuck cancer!” and Miller picked a song on the jukebox while Murphy brought a gift-wrapped box out onto the table.

Bellamy squinted at it. “Did you get me a remission present?”

“Don’t get too excited, you’re getting this instead of a birthday gift this year.”

He unwrapped it; there was a CD with cover art that he recognised as Clarke’s style, and it was titled with, “Funeral Mix”, and underneath it, a large photo frame with a picture he didn’t recognise. He was in his hospital bed, sleeping, and his family was standing around it. Clarke was there too, which he definitely didn’t remember.

“When was this taken?”

“After you went back to sleep. Clarke met up with the surgeon who cut you open so she could give us a more direct update on your situation, and while she was there, one of the nurses offered to take a picture.”

“When he says ‘offered’ he means he bullied the man into it.” Wells said, as he slid into the booth.

“I will not apologise for my methods; they get results.”

“And don’t make you any friends.”

“Hey, I got you, didn’t I?”

“Actually, Bellamy got me, and by _association_ you somehow managed to befriend me as well.”

“I resent that.”

The bar door opened and Bellamy craned his head to see if Clarke had arrived yet. He was quietly disappointed when it wasn’t her, but he thought he vaguely recognised the man walking towards the counter.  
It just so happened that the man glanced his way as he did, and made a sharp u-turn in their direction.

“Why is that hot pirate coming towards us?” Murphy asked.

“Bellamy?”

“Roan.” Bellamy slid out of the booth and stuck his hand out for the man to shake. He’d always liked Roan the most of the people he’d met that Echo worked with. “How are you?”

“Good. Haven’t seen you around in a while.”

“Echo and I broke up.”

“Shame.” He deadpanned. Murphy choked on his drink.

“Is she doing okay?” Bellamy asked, because try as he might, he couldn’t bring himself to hate her as much as his friends did.

Roan shrugged. “I try not to work with her that often, but last I heard she was sleeping with a photographer, so I figured if you hadn’t already broken up I should let you know.”

“Thanks.” Bellamy genuinely appreciated the concern.

“So, what are you celebrating?” Roan asked, noticing the balloons Wells was holding, and the gift on the table.

The bar door opened again and then arms snaked around Bellamy’s waist from behind. He grinned and leaned into it, lifting his arm so Clarke could duck under it and face him without having to let go.

“I can’t believe you left the hospital without telling me first.” She scolded.

“You were busy, I checked.” He promised. “And I figured it would be more fun to celebrate it with everyone here.”

“Still, I had to find out by_ text!”_

He frowned. “But… _my_ text. Right?”

She ducked her head sheepishly and lied through her teeth. “Uh. Yes.”

“Oh my god, Clarke, who could have possibly got to you first?! I made sure to tell you before the others!”

“Anya.” She admitted. “She texted me right after your meeting.”

“That’s gotta break some doctor-patient shit.” He grumbled, but he bundled her up in his arms anyway, burrowing into the crook of her neck and breathing her in.

He was in remission.

He was going to be okay.

“A round of beer for the cancer survivor!” Octavia yelled as she and Lincoln burst into the bar, and Gina immediately poured out another one. Bellamy buried his face further into Clarke’s neck and she laughed, fingers coming up to tug on his curls.

“You can’t hide from the attention tonight; this is all about you.”

Roan clapped him on the shoulder and called out to Gina, “Get him one from me as well, Martin.”

“Anything you say, Kingsley.” She half-saluted at him and poured another drink.

Roan congratulated him before he sidled over to the dartboard, making him promise to organise drinks some other time, and Bellamy grinned after him and spun to hug his sister and brother-in-law.

Clarke kept her hand on his side the whole time.

By the time Bellamy was back in the booth, nestled between Clarke and Miller with everyone just about managing to squeeze in around them, there were eight pints on the table: all with his name on. He shook his head. “Typical. I survive cancer and die of alcohol poisoning.”

Everyone raised their glasses and Murphy stood up dramatically. “To Bellamy. For being too stubborn to die.”

They cheered and clattered the drinks together, spilling them onto the table, and Bellamy couldn’t stop smiling.

“Hey.” Clarke whispered at his shoulder.

“Hey.” He ducked his head closer.

She grinned. “I told you so. I told you it’d be fine. I told you that you were gonna be okay.”

He laughed, nudging his forehead against hers. “Are you only here so you can gloat about being right?”

“Pretty much.” Her fingers laced through his under the table. “Also you’re pretty hot. And you make good pancakes.”

“Thank you, it’s the only thing I’m good at.”

“I don’t know, I could think of a few other things.” She said suggestively, leaning closer.

“Urgh, you _better_ be talking about cooking.” Octavia’s voice cut through the moment, and they started. The entire table had stopped conversing and they were all staring at them.

“What?”

“We’re just happy for you.” Wells said, ever the diplomat.

“And I’m thinking about the fact that Clarke would never cheat on you.” Murphy said, less tactfully.

“Dude.” Miller ran a hand over his face.

“What? We were_ all_ thinking it!”

“Yeah, but it was implied.”

_“Anyway,”_ Octavia said forcefully, cutting off the discussion. She kept a steel gazed levelled at Clarke, and Bellamy had a feeling she was about to give her ‘the talk’. The hypothesis was proven correct when she said, “Clarke. What are your intentions with my brother?”

She bit her lip. “To keep him alive.”

Octavia’s face cracked into a slow smile. “That’s a tough job, are you sure you’re up for it?”

“Yeah, pretty sure.”

“Good. In that case, you have my approval.”

“And mine.” Miller said.

“And mine.” Murphy slammed his drink back.

Bellamy held up a finger in protest. “Just so we’re clear, no-one _needs_ your approval.”

“Yeah, but I’m glad I’ve got it anyway.” Clarke hummed.

“Yeah?” He knitted his brows together in bemusement.

“Yeah. I intend to be around for a very long time.” She said, perching her chin against his shoulder and blinking up at him with those wide blue eyes. “So if I didn’t have their approval, things would get a little tense.”

“Y’know, like whenever Echo was around.” Murphy said loudly, unable to drop the issue, and Miller smacked him on the back of the head.

“A very long time, huh?” He checked, nervous.

“Yep. For as long as you’ve got left.” She grinned. _“Eons.”_

When he kissed her, he didn’t care that his friends were whooping and stomping, or that she tasted of cider, or that up until that morning, he’d been panicking about dying of cancer. All he cared about was that he had a family who cared, and a girlfriend who was ready to commit to the long haul. Who wanted to spend eons with him.

Once he broke the kiss, he didn’t go far, nose nuzzling her cheek, palm sliding up her back to keep her pressed against him.

“I love you.” He said into her lips.

“Love you so much.” She promised back.

The jukebox danced out a new tune, and Bellamy sighed contentedly, closing his eyes so he could hold onto the moment with all his might.

Murphy scoffed merrily. “Dude, I cannot believe you used your cancer to score yourself a girlfriend.”

As the table erupted in laughter, for the first time in months, everything felt like it might be okay. And Bellamy never wanted to let that feeling go.

**Author's Note:**

> so.... thoughts?
> 
> your kudos and comments genuinely brighten my day, especially on days like today <3


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